


The A-Z of a Young Knight's Education in Life and Other Matters

by LadyRhiyana



Series: The tale of Squire!Brienne [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, Jaime is Brienne's mentor, Life Lessons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 01:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17070554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: Drabbles in my Squire!Brienne AU.**J is for JealousyFive times someone is jealous of Brienne.





	1. A is for advice

**Author's Note:**

> Lord Selwyn's blessing and counsel is loosely based on that given by D'Artagnan the Elder in "The Three Musketeers". Minus the part about not taking insult from anyone and fighting duels as often as possible.

1\. 

On the day that she left Tarth for King’s Landing, her father gave her his blessing and some last words of advice.

“Be brave and honourable in all that you do,” her father said. “Never fear quarrels; stand your ground and fight, if you feel the cause is just. Remember that the court is a nest of snakes. Do not become drawn into any intrigue, but honour the king, and always strive to uphold the principles of chivalry and knighthood.”

**

It had all seemed so easy, in the beginning. 

**

2\. 

When she first arrived in King’s Landing, the Queen called her into her chambers for an audience. Brienne entered the silk-draped, airily feminine room with her heart pounding, feeling like a hulking giant compared to the slender, golden-haired Queen. 

She bowed – not daring to curtsey – and stood with her head down and her shoulders hunched.

“Oh stand up straight, girl, don’t slouch,” were the first words Queen Cersei said to her. 

Brienne straightened automatically, her eyes flying to the Queen’s face. Her first thought was that she looked very much like Ser Jaime – but without her brother’s ironic smile.

“When I heard of your coming to court, I thought that you were angling for a husband,” the Queen began. 

Brienne flushed beet red and opened her mouth to protest. 

“But that’s clearly not the case, is it, Lady Brienne.” the Queen overrode her protests, gave her a pitying smile. “You really do want to be a knight.” She laughed. Brienne’s stomach sank and twisted within her. It was a beautiful, melodic laugh – not even unkind. 

“Well, it’s a hard path you’ve chosen. Let me give you some advice.” She leaned in, beckoned Brienne closer. Drawn in despite herself, Brienne knelt before the beautiful Queen, close enough that she could smell her heady perfume. “Men are like animals,” the Queen spoke, low and intimate. “In numbers, they’re like a pack of hounds. They can smell weakness. The moment they catch one whiff of vulnerability, they’ll turn on you and tear you apart.”

Brienne looked up at her with wide eyes. 

“You’ll never be one of them. They’ll see you as a challenge to be overcome. Because you don’t have a cock, you have to be stronger, better, faster than all of them, every time, and you can never, ever appear weak. Remember that girl, or else you won’t remain a maid for long.”

**

When the other squires first began to pay court to her, it was the Queen’s words of warning that made her wary. 

** 

3\. 

Because she slept in a little alcove beside Ser Jaime’s room in White Sword Tower, she became acquainted not just with him but with the rest of the Kingsguard – something she could never have imagined, before coming to King’s Landing. 

Ser Arys Oakheart was kind enough, if rather stolid; Ser Preston Greenfield was amiable and indifferent. As much as possible, she tried to avoid Ser Boros Blount, Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Mandon Moore.

Ser Barristan Selmy, though, was everything his reputation made him out to be: grave, honourable and even kind. 

One day, he came across her training in the mirrored training hall in the Tower. 

“You’ve been training with Ser Jaime,” he said. “I know that trick.” 

She paused, panting for breath, and wiped the sweat from her brow. “I can’t quite master it,” she replied. “He makes it look so easy.”

Ser Barristan laughed – a kind, good-natured laugh, devoid of any irony or cutting intent. “That is one of his strengths as a swordsman,” he said. “Speed, agility and finesse. If I may?”

She nodded eagerly, her eyes wide. He picked up a blunted tourney sword and began to spar with her, leading her through the standard drills and watching her with shrewd, narrowed eyes. 

“You move well,” he said. “And you’ve got good instincts.” 

He pressed her further, upping the tempo and raining blows upon her, forcing her to block and retreat until she finally gathered the strength to throw him back. 

“Excellent!” he said, his eyes gleaming with good humour. “There are your strengths, Lady Brienne. Endurance. Stamina. Outlast your opponent, let them exhaust themselves trying to defeat you as quickly as possible, and then overwhelm them with your greater strength.”

She thanked him, almost stuttering in her eagerness.

“Don’t try to be like Ser Jaime,” he said as he replaced the blunted sword and turned to leave. “You can’t match his agility or his speed. Play to your own strengths.”

**

Later, before she and Ser Jaime left King’s Landing, Ser Barristan gave her another piece of advice. 

“Don’t follow him blindly,” he said. “Think, and make your own decision.” 

**

4.

“My dear brother has no concept of money,” Lord Tyrion announced. “If you are going off with him into the wide world, there are things I must teach you before you leave.”

Wide-eyed, she donned a non-descript tunic and breeches and let him lead her into the city. Trailing through the crowds, he led her on a tour of various inns, drinking houses, gaming houses and brothels. 

“Now, Brienne,” he said, as they called for wine at a well-appointed inn. “Are you listening? This is what a skin of Arbor gold is worth. Don’t let yourself be fleeced.” 

Later, at a low tavern in Flea Bottom, he said, “This is what a tankard of ale and a meal is worth. For the gods’ sake, don’t flash your money around, and keep your purse close at all times.”

On the Street of Silk, he taught her how to recognize a good brothel and how much to pay a good whore. By that time, he was drunk and merry; he offered to pay one of the scantily clad girls to teach her another very important lesson, but she declined, blushing furiously.

“Of course,” he said, long hours later, his eyes glassy with drink, “money has other, more abstract uses. You can buy not just goods and services but also people. Honour can be bought and sold. Everything and everyone can be bought, if one only knows the right price.”

** 

When they left King’s Landing, he gave her a hefty bag full of gold and silver coins and made her promise to look after Ser Jaime on the road.

**

5.

“Oh no,” Lady Olenna said, when Brienne’s eyes strayed to Lord Renly’s handsome form, strolling among the roses at Highgarden. “No, my dear, no.” 

The matriarch of the Tyrells patted Brienne on the hand, not unkindly. “Trust me when I say you haven’t a chance, Lady Brienne. Besides, you’re much too good for him.” 

“I don’t, I’ve never,” Brienne stammered helplessly.

“I know what it is to admire a pretty face, girl. But I’ve seen too many handsome boys strutting about, thinking with their swords and their cocks and prating about honour and chivalry – what use is all that when a man’s worth is truly tested? Take all their money and their armour and their swords away, that’s when you know what a man is worth.”

** 

Years later, she would learn the truth of Lady Olenna’s words.

**

+1

Brienne never thought she’d have a squire of her own. 

Young Podrick Payne scowled down at the ground, his eyes lowered, his jaw set in sullen determination, and she was irresistibly reminded of herself, new come to King’s Landing – 

“For the gods’ sake don’t slouch, Pod,” she said. “Stand up straight.”


	2. B is for...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> B is for bedding down (not like that!) on the beach. Set after "The Bandits in the Wood".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick little drabble to kickstart my writing in 2019.

The early morning air was filled with the roar of the waves and the smell of salt and seaweed. Gulls were soaring over the water, dipping and diving into swarming schools of tiny fish; the sun had not yet risen and the air was still chill. 

Shivering slightly as the breeze cut through her thin shirt and breeches, Brienne walked down the mineral-flecked sand to the waves. Unselfconscious, she stripped down and slipped into the water, buoyant and light and graceful as she never was on land.

Still wrapped in his stained red cloak, Ser Jaime slept on.

**

They were perhaps two days ride south of Crakehall. There were few villages and towns on the Ocean Road; they had spent the previous night on a tiny sheltered beach, careful to make their camp above the tideline. 

While Ser Jaime had gathered driftwood for their fire, Brienne had prised oysters off the rocks with her belt-knife and caught a handful of the tiny sweet crabs scuttling over the sand. They were quick and cunning, and Ser Jaime had laughed uproariously at her as she cursed and swore; still, eventually she gathered enough for their evening meal. 

They had eaten the oysters fresh from the shell and snatched roasted crabs from the fire with burning fingers, washing it all down with Ser Lyle Crakehall’s best Arbor red. 

Afterwards, replete and slightly tipsy, they had sprawled in the sand and stared up at the full moon and the brilliant stars overhead, before finally wrapping their cloaks around themselves and dropping off to sleep, lulled by the sound of the waves. 

** 

By the time she had finished her swim and had started preparations for their morning meal, Ser Jaime was awake and cursing the new-risen sun. Unshaven, rumpled, yawning, he stretched and swore as his joints cracked and staggered down to the water to dunk his head. 

Brienne no longer saw him as the white-cloaked golden Kingslayer. She had lived in close proximity to him for months. She knew his lazy grace and his quick reflexes and his unthinking reckless arrogance. She knew that he smelled of sweat and horse and leather, of smoke and wool and steel. She knew the warmth of his presence and the rhythm of his breathing as he slept. 

She had grown used to his constant presence – it had felt scandalous at first, but as time passed and Septa Roelle’s strictures faded she soon discarded any maidenly qualms. 

He was only Ser Jaime, and what was there to fear from him? 

He had a lover already.


	3. C is for Catelyn Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C is for Catelyn Stark. After Renly's death, Brienne and Lady Catelyn make their way to Riverrun. Brienne tells Lady Catelyn of her adventures with Ser J - Ser Jon Hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little speculative jump into the future of this verse. I had planned a much longer story starting at Bitterbridge and ending with Catelyn releasing Jaime, but this little drabble seemed to be the heart of it.

Two hours after their flight from Renly’s camp, Catelyn’s unlikely companion calls a halt. 

They dismount near a tiny stream. Brienne kneels down to wash her hands and face, sluicing away Renly’s blood with dark, empty eyes. 

“I wonder if they’ll call me a kingslayer now,” Brienne says. Her eyes flick up to Catelyn’s. “I suppose they’ll think it fitting.” 

“It was a shadow,” Catelyn says. “We both saw it.”

Brienne only shakes her head. “People will believe what they want to believe.” 

** 

Brienne is quiet and reserved. She doesn’t say much, but she watches and listens, her eyes alert and wary. She can turn her hand to anything: she can hunt and forage, build fires and make camp and slip through the woods as silently as any scout. She can also, as Catelyn had seen at Bitterbridge, fight as well as any man. 

“Where did you learn such skills, Brienne?” Catelyn asks. 

The sky is clear, the breeze only a little chill. They are alone on the trail, and Brienne’s shoulders are relaxed. But at Catelyn’s question, she tenses, an involuntarily tell – before deliberately relaxing. 

“My father’s master-at arms taught me to fight,” she says. “He taught me woodcraft and survival skills.” 

“I wouldn’t have thought the master-at-arms on Tarth could train you well enough to defeat the Knight of Flowers.” 

Brienne takes a long moment to answer. The slow clopping of their horses’ hooves fills the silence. 

“When I was 16 years old, I went to squire for – for a knight in King’s Landing. I learned from Ser Aron Santagar at the Red Keep. And then when Ser J – when my knight left King’s Landing, we went out on the road.”

It almost sounded like she had squired for a hedge knight. But no squire to a hedge knight could have trained with Ser Aron Santagar. 

“What was his name, this knight you squired under?” Catelyn asks.

Brienne’s eyes flick away to the side. She can’t lie at all, Catelyn realizes. 

“Ser Jon. Hill,” Brienne says. 

“A Westerlander then.” 

Brienne nods. Her shoulders are hunched and she looks miserably uncomfortable. 

Catelyn lets the subject drop. The question of how the daughter of a bannerman of Storm’s End had squired for a knight of the Westerlands, intriguing though it was, could wait for another time. 

** 

“Tell me about Ser Jon,” Catelyn says that night. 

They had made camp in a tiny clearing off the road. Brienne had snared a fat rabbit and gathered a handful of berries, and they had eaten well. Now they warmed their hands at the fire, a welcome light in the darkness. 

Brienne takes a sip of wine, as though to brace herself. 

Slowly, Brienne begins the tale of her adventures with the quixotic Ser Jon Hill. “You must understand,” Brienne begins, “Ser J – Ser Jon hates – hated – court. He had no patience for it. I think he was almost relieved when we were both thrown out.”

“He wasn’t worried about falling from favour and losing his position?”

Brienne shakes her head. “No. The Queen would always –” she stops, flushes. “The banishment was only temporary. It was like an adventure.” 

“We went out on the road,” Brienne continues. “There was no plan to it. We had two good horses and the weather was good, and if we wanted to go somewhere, or see or do something, we just – went.” 

Catelyn can’t imagine having such freedom from responsibility or the constraints of ordinary practicalities.

“But – what about money?” she asks. 

“Ser Jon was hopeless with money.” Brienne smiles, her blue eyes warming. “He kept saying it was merely a means to an end, that it couldn’t buy true loyalty or honour. Before we left King’s Landing, Lord T – Ser Jon’s brother gave me a pouch full of gold and silver and told me to look after the purse-strings.” Her smile is a strange mixture of fond indulgence and wry acceptance. “Ser Jon was not always the most – practical – of men.” 

As the nights pass, Brienne tells Catelyn of their adventures on the road, of tourneys and bandits and storms on the Sunset Sea, of the endless fields of golden flowers in the Reach and lounging on silk cushions in a pleasure boat on the Mander at Highgarden, of the stark red mountains of Dorne and the luxurious decadence of the water gardens. 

Brienne speaks of Ser Jon himself, reckless and sharp-tongued and proud, who hated bullies and hypocrisy and had no patience for games. Ser Jon had believed in Brienne when everyone else thought her a laughingstock, had taught her to stand up for herself – because no one else would – and had told her to never, ever apologise. 

Her expression as she speaks of Ser Jon’s unshakeable self-assurance is reminiscent of one that Catelyn has seen before, on the Kingslayer. It’s the same set pride, Catelyn realizes, utterly unapologetic, daring the world to despise her. 

By the time they are in sight of Riverrun, Catelyn is all but certain she knows Ser Jon’s true identity. 

** 

[Catelyn takes Brienne with her to the dungeons to confront Ser Jaime Lannister. He squints up at Catelyn in the sudden light, then past her to Brienne – and a cruel, unholy wicked grin curls his lip. 

“Lady Brienne,” he drawls. “What, done with Renly already? Did he fail to live up to your high standards? And now I see you’ve found a lady just as proud and honourable as yourself to serve. No doubt you fell over yourself to finally pledge yourself to an honourable cause.” 

Brienne looks ill. But she stands her ground.]


	4. D is for dirty fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D is for dirty fighting. In which no one is knightly or chivalrous, except perhaps Jaime. Rated for Sandor Clegane and his enjoyment of the c-word, for dirty fighting and filthier comments, and for the Connington bitch-slap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for general violence and blood, foul language and hinting at bad things that can happen when men hunt in packs. So, for ASOIAF/GoT generally then.

**1 – SANDOR**

The squires are fighting again. 

Sandor Clegane looks down on the practice yard, where the Kingslayer’s freakish ugly girl-squire is facing off with two of the cunts who were in on the infamous bet. Others are crowded around, watching and catcalling; out from under the eyes of the master-at-arms or any of the other knights who might have called them to order, their comments grow ever filthier and obscene. 

The big ugly wench can hold her own, though. Sandor has to give her that. Ignoring the audience, she seems set on bludgeoning her opponents into silence with a whirling morningstar. She wields it with a fierce rage that Sandor knows all too well; never mind finesse or skill, she’s bigger and stronger than them, and she rains blow after blow down on their wooden shields until they splinter and crack and she finally whirls the spiked iron ball into their teeth. 

Or she would have, if they hadn’t fallen to their knees and yielded like the mewling cowards they were. 

The audience crows and sniggers, and one of the boys on their knees makes a comment that makes her hand clench around the handle of her morningstar. Deliberately, she throws the weapon down, balls up her fist and smashes it into his face, sending blood flying from his shattered nose and knocking him on his back in the dust. 

For a long moment, the entire yard is silenced. 

**

“Girl,” Sandor rasps as she lumbers past him, her fists clenched tight with fury. 

She whirls to face him, her eyes going wide as she takes in his height, his bulk, the scarred ruin of his face. 

“Ser,” she says, bowing her head with strained courtesy. 

Her hands are almost as big as a man’s, her knuckles split and bloodied. Her ugly, freckled face is red and sheened with sweat, and her straw-like hair is matted and tangled. But her eyes are wide, and blue, and guileless – 

His mouth twists. “Bugger that. I’m not a knight. Listen,” he continues, before she can reply, “those cunts will never accept you.” He jerks his head towards the practice yard, where the remaining squires have resumed their training. “You’re a woman, and an ugly one at that.”

She flushes an ugly, splotched red. “I know that,” she almost snarls, her fists clenching angrily. “They don’t matter. What do I care what they think? ”

Unspoken, Sandor can almost hear the Kingslayer tossing off light words about lions and sheep. 

Sandor laughs. “You listen to me, girl,” he says, stepping closer and looming over her. “You’re not a fucking Lannister. You’re too ugly for one, and you’re not nearly vicious enough.”

Her eyes fly wide, unguarded, and for a moment he thinks _you poor moonstruck fool_ , but she recovers quickly, stands her ground and draws herself up to her full height. 

“What am I, then?” she asks. 

“You’re just like me,” he says. “We may not be knights, but we’re better than any of those cunts prancing about in their fancy armour. And who gives a fuck if they call us freaks, laugh at us and fear and despise us? If they ever have to face us on a battlefield they’ll piss their breeches like mewling boys.”

She stares at him. 

“You want to learn how to fight, girl?” he snarls. “I’ll show you how to fight.”

** 

**2 – JAIME**

Brienne’s knuckles are bruised and bloodied. Her mouth is split and swollen, and her eye is blackened – 

“Should I be concerned?” he asks. 

She shakes her head. “No, ser. It’s nothing.” 

He takes a moment to examine her. She meets his gaze openly; her eyes are still wide and guileless, not shadowed or ashamed, and she shows no signs of any harm beyond the physical – 

Jaime knows what women look like after they’ve been raped. He’s seen it all too often, in fields and villages and castles, in women highborn and low. 

He sees no signs of it in Brienne, and so he holds his tongue. 

**

A few days later he’s passing the practice yard with Ser Barristan and Ser Arys Oakheart. Brienne and two of the other squires are fighting again, he sees; she’s become much fiercer since the bet, no longer apologizing for her presence.

A change in the tenor of the usual cheering and catcalling alerts him. One of the squires – a red-headed bully named Connington – had made a comment, and suddenly the sparring grows fiercer, angrier; Brienne and Connington and the other boy, Mullendore go at each other with blunted swords like they’re out for each other’s blood, hacking and slashing with brute ferocity. 

“Should we step in?” Ser Arys asks. Jaime looks at Ser Aron Santagar, the master at arms, who is watching on with his arms crossed and looking unimpressed. 

“Not yet,” See Aron says. Beside him, Sandor Clegane is watching as well. 

Mullendore engages her, distracting her while Connington charges her from behind and knocks her off her feet. She sweeps Connington’s feet out from under him and scrambles away, lunging back to her feet just in time to block Mullendore’s vicious blow to her head. 

Their swords locked, she forces Mullendore’s blade down to the side and instead of throwing him back she reaches out to grab his armour, jerks him towards her, knees him between the legs and head-butts him – 

The crowd draws in their breath, shocked, as the boy drops like a stone, blood pouring from his nose. Then they erupt into raucous yelling, and Connington charges at her, enraged. Sparks fly as they batter at each other with brute, ugly strength, with swords and fists alike. 

Jaime glances again at the master at arms, who walks away, washing his hands of the matter. 

“Where on earth did she learn that?” Ser Barristan asks, appalled. “Such tactics have their place, of course, but not here –”

“I taught her,” Sandor Clegane says, almost proudly. “Good little student, she is.”

Brienne and Connington are on the ground now, snarling and wrestling in the dirt like feral dogs. The crowd is baying and howling just like spectators at a dogfight; Jaime feels the ugly, bloodthirsty current of it and tenses, ready to step in and intervene. 

Just then, Connington kicks Brienne between her legs, and she gasps and staggers. The crowd roars. Jaime’s hand clenches on his sword hilt, but Clegane restrains him. “You’ve got to expect it,” he rasps out, “can’t dish it out and not expect it in return. Just watch. The girl can take him.” 

Raging, Brienne smashes her elbow into Connington’s face and knocks him down, kicks him full force in the ribs until he curls up into a ball, panting and spitting out blood. 

“I yield!” he calls out, “I yield, I yield, you mad bitch!” 

Brienne stands over him, panting, blood running from her nose and her mouth and her eyes dark with triumph.

Still, she backs away and allows him to collect himself, ready to end the bout now that she’d finally made her point. But Connington is not finished – 

“Cunt-whore,” he snarls, spitting out a mouthful of blood. “Spreading your legs for the Kingslayer and the Hound – I’ve seen you taking lessons from old Selmy too – is he fucking you as well?”

Brienne goes white. 

A deadly hush falls over the crowd as they wait for her reaction. 

And in the silence, Jaime steps into the yard, fully armoured and in his white cloak. She turns to stare at him, her eyes wide, and he spares her a small smile, but continues past her until he’s standing over Connington. 

With one gauntleted fist he picks the red-headed cunt off the ground and shakes him like a rag doll. 

“Beg the lady’s pardon,” he says mildly, “and then you’ll beg my pardon, and Ser Barristan’s, and even Clegane’s.” 

“Fuck if I will,” Connington says, spitting a mouthful of blood at Jaime’s feet. “I won’t apologise to the Kingslayer’s whore –” 

Jaime drops him to the ground and smashes him across the mouth with his gauntleted fist. “Call her by her name,” he says, picking him up and smashing him a second and a third time, until his teeth splinter and his mouth is a reddened ruin. “Call her Lady Brienne.”


	5. E is for epistolary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> E is for Epistolary - Every now and then, Jaime writes to Lord Selwyn with news of Brienne's progress.

Market day dawned fine and clear. As Lord Selwyn Tarth and Ser Goodwin rode their horses down from Evenfall hall to Tarth’s tiny harbour-town, they broke their fast on bread and cheese and shared a skin of sour ale. 

Farmers and merchants called greetings as they passed, and Selwyn called out a word to each of them in turn – they were his people, and he knew each and every one of them. 

“Seven blessings on you, ser and my lord,” an old woman with a wagon piled high with cheeses called, her grey hair caught up beneath a cloth shawl. Her face was lined and weathered, but her eyes were kind. “And to Lady Brienne, off adventuring in the wide world.” 

“And you, mistress,” he returned with a wave. 

“And how is our Brienne, my lord?” Ser Goodwin asked as they rode past. “I saw a raven come in last night.”

Selwyn chuckled. “Here,” he said, “they are in Highgarden, at the court of the golden roses.” He fished out a rolled up parchment and handed it over to his old friend.

Brienne wrote to him regularly. But every now and then, the Kingslayer himself put quill and ink to parchment.

The first message had been almost two months after Brienne’s arrival in King’s Landing, scrawled in an unknown hand. Selwyn had not heard from Brienne for some weeks, and had been worried that something had happened – the raven had arrived just as he was considering the trip to King’s Landing to find out for himself. 

_Lord Selwyn,_ it had read, _Brienne will never willingly share this, but what honour I have left compels me to inform you. Your daughter’s safety was entrusted to me, and I have done my best to safeguard it. The other squires turned on her. I stopped it before it went too far. No physical harm was done, but now there is no chance of easy acceptance among her peers. I told her she had two choices: either flee back to Tarth and give up all hope of becoming a knight, or go out and face her tormentors._

_She chose the latter option. But it was a sore blow to her dreams of chivalry and knightly glory._

_Jaime Lannister_ , it had been signed. The seal had been white, embossed with the seven-pointed star and crown of the Kingsguard. 

The Kingslayer had written to him at odd intervals after that, describing Brienne’s progress in her training ( _…strong as an aurochs and surprisingly quick, but she doesn’t have the killer instinct, not yet_ ); her interactions with the other squires ( _…they’re not all cunts; she spars with the Tyrell boy often. I believe she has more interest in his footwork than his brown eyes and ridiculous curls_ ); her education in more worldly matters ( _…drinking with my brother Tyrion. She had a sore head the next morning, and I worked her all the harder for it_ ); and even more personal thoughts and reflections ( _…her head stuffed with tales of romance and adventure. But if that makes her a fool, then so was I at her age._ )

Selwyn had shared every one of Brienne’s and the Kingslayer’s messages with his household, chuckling over the things that one left out and the other left in, following his daughter’s progress in King’s Landing with great pride and interest. 

And then had come the day when two ravens had arrived, one from Brienne and one from Ser Jaime, bearing messages confessing that they had both been thrown out of court and were going out on the road, anywhere, so long as it was away from King’s Landing.

Since then, Brienne’s messages had grown even happier, filled with the thrill of adventure, discovery and excitement. Selwyn and the household followed her tales of taking the Goldroad into the Westerlands, envisioning from her descriptions the vastness of Casterly Rock, the colour and pageantry of the tourney at Ashemark, the thrill of her victory in the melee. 

_Ser Jaime,_ Brienne wrote, over and over. Ser Jaime said this. Ser Jaime did that. 

Ser Jaime sometimes asked her impossible questions. _Which should come first – defend the innocent, or uphold the law? Protect the weak, or obey your lord? What happens if loyalty and obedience means soiling your honour? What do you think, Father? What would you do?_

When the Kingslayer wrote that he was taking Brienne to Crakehall to see her blooded in combat, Selwyn thought he had a clear enough grasp on the man’s character to trust to his judgment. 

When he received the next message in the Kingslayer’s bold scrawl, it had read:

_The outlaws are routed. It was a short, dirty campaign with little honour and less glory. Still, Brienne acquitted herself well. If you had any fears that she might freeze in combat, put them to rest. She fought well and killed without hesitation. I made sure she drank until she passed out, and she slept without dreams._

Brienne’s message had only read: 

_We fought them in the woods. It wasn’t what I expected. Ser Jaime says that nothing ever is._

Before this latest message sent from Highgarden, the last Selwyn had heard of them they were headed into the Reach. 

Ser Goodwin chuckled as he read the latest message. “Ser Jaime says that he’s almost had his fill of feasts, pleasure boating and moonlit dancing in the rose gardens – oh, to be young again,” he sighed. 

Selwyn laughed. “Read on,” he said. 

“But Brienne has at least learned to dance and make some sort of polite conversation – well, if he’s managed that much at least, it’s more than Septa Roelle ever did.” 

“Hmm,” Selwyn agreed. “Read on.”

“And what’s this? She has bought herself a sand-steed. And named it –”

Ser Goodwin burst into laughter, slapping his belly and shaking his head in delight. “That girl,” he said. “Only she would name her horse Honour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last line is of course a reference to AFFC, where Jaime's squires (a Paege, a Piper and a Peckledon) name his horses Honor and Glory. He laughs at them but lets the names stand.


	6. F is for Fast-forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick double-drabble set in Winterfell post season-7. Though she no longer serves the Lannisters, Brienne learned her lessons well.

Tyrion spots her immediately: the too-tall, hulking maid he’d known in King’s Landing is now a too-tall, hulking woman, grave and taciturn and composed. 

He sees her everywhere: in the courtyard, coordinating the preparations for Winterfell’s defence; on the battlements, persuading troops from disparate houses with differing loyalties to fight together like brothers; in the great hall, coolly exerting her authority as Lady Sansa’s military commander. 

She doesn’t use smiles and disguised pleasantries like Cersei might, nor even cool haughty authority like Lady Sansa. Her leadership style is distinctly masculine, based on confidence, competence and – well, the common touch. 

She never lets them forget her authority though. 

A laughing slur from a drunken Northman, confident in his superiority: Lady Brienne does not grant him the grace of a proper fight, but drops him with a brutal right hook. 

A haughty comment from a supercilious knight of the Vale: Lady Brienne stares him down, using every bit of her superior height, her expression one of withering contempt. 

Tyrion knows that look. It was his father’s _“The lion does not concern itself with the opinions of sheep”_. It’s Cersei’s most regal dismissal. It’s Jaime’s damn-you-all pride, utterly unapologetic. 

It’s a Lannister look.


	7. G is for Generations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Winterfell, Podrick has finally become a skilled swordsman. Some of the older knights notice something familiar in his technique.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little drabble contains Podrick Payne as portrayed in episode 8x02 - i.e. confident, competent and a good swordsman. I wanted to do one last tribute to Pod before episode 8x03 airs, because I'm not feeling confident about his survival.

Brienne watched on as Pod sparred with the knights and men-at-arms in the training yard, her eyes narrowed but her mouth set in a pleased half-smile. He’d grown in skill and confidence from the shy, bumbling boy she’d first known; he was almost a man now, the shadow of a beard darkening his jaw, and he’d grown quite competent with a sword. 

All those long hours of lessons – knocking him down, and watching him get back up, time and time again – had finally paid off. 

She nodded firmly when he disarmed one of the knights of the Vale with a combination she’d learned from – where had she picked that one up? Not from Ser Goodwin. From the masters-at-arms of the Red Keep, or Highgarden, or Riverrun? Perhaps from one of the huge, shaggy wildlings? 

No. She’d learned that one from – 

“Lady Brienne,” a well-bred, courteous voice said. She turned to see Bronze Yohn Royce standing beside her, watching the match with interest. 

“Ser,” she replied, acknowledging him with a nod. “Your man fights well.” 

“Not so well as your squire, I think,” he said. “That last bout was impressive. You’ve taught him well.”

She bowed her head at the compliment. The old man was a doughty, grey-haired warrior who had seen a great deal of combat. His honour was unquestioned and his respect hard-earned. 

“That last attack,” he continued. “I have seen it before, many years past. It was a favourite of the Sword of the Morning." He paused, lost in memories of brighter, better days. "I watched him fight at the great tourney of Harrenhal. He looked like the Warrior himself." After a long moment, he sighed and came back to himself. "We shall not see his like again."

Brienne remembered, now. The packed earth of the training yard below White Sword Tower, Ser Jaime walking her through unfamiliar combinations, the cadence of his voice changed, as though he were repeating instructions once spoken to him by another man with a different pattern of speech.

He'd always been oddly reflective afterwards. Lost in memories of brighter, better days.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Bronze Yohn asked. 

“From Ser Arthur’s protégé,” Brienne said.


	8. H is for Hear Me Roar!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 times Jaime was the fierce Lion of Lannister (and one time he pretended otherwise).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I'm not too happy with this chapter. It's not my best work. However, after a few months I've just thrown up my hands and decided to post. 
> 
> Also: warnings for: a hanging, violence against women, and violence in general.

**

**1\. That nasty business of a duel with a jumped up lordling from the Reach***

**

King’s Landing sweltered in the summer heat. The great eye of the sun beat down on the Red Keep and the city alike. Tempers flared and men grew quarrelsome. 

In the filthy alleys of Flea Bottom, men knifed each other over petty trifles. In the Red Keep and the higher circles of the city, knights fought and died over trivial points of honour.

_Watch out,_ the young knights and squires whispered in the practice yard, _the Kingslayer’s in a nasty mood. Did you hear? He killed young Ser Reynard. Two passes, then shoved a dagger right through his eye – just like that._

The windows in Ser Jaime’s quarters in White Sword Tower were thrown open as far as they could go. Ser Jaime himself was lounging in the window embrasure, dressed in light breeches and a linen tunic; Brienne sat in the corner, polishing Ser Jaime’s armour and trying to fade into the background. 

There was a knock at the door, and Ser Barristan Selmy entered, white-cloaked and in full armour, his mouth set in a grave line. He spared a glance for Brienne. 

“Lady Brienne,” he said, “would you excuse us.”

She glanced at Ser Jaime. His mouth tightened, but he shrugged. “Go and find Tyrion, Brienne, and ask him if he has any errands for you to run.”

She rose as quickly as she could, bowed at both knights, and hastened away. As she hurried down the stairs, she could hear Ser Barristan’s grave rebuke: _knights of the Kingsguard do not engage in unseemly brawls_ and Ser Jaime’s indifferent reply: _the boy was a cunt._

**

Lord Tyrion was not in his rooms in the Keep. The gate guards pointed her down to the city, and so Brienne set off into the crowded streets. It was stifling hot, a thick, heavy heat rising from the cobblestones; she could feel her linen tunic growing hot and sticky with sweat.

_Did you hear?_ the street boys said excitedly, darting across her path and laughing. _The Kingslayer cut a man down, right in the street._ They flailed at each other with sticks, mock-fighting. _Ha!_ they cried, and _ha! Take that!_ until one of them groaned and fell to his knees, the other flourishing his sword. 

_Did you hear?_ the merchant’s wives and daughters in the markets said, sighing wistfully, _the Kingslayer killed that beautiful Ser Reynard. He had such lovely copper curls._

_Did you hear?_ the men in the taverns said. _The boy was drunk. The Kingslayer forced a quarrel on him and refused to let him yield._

Finding no sign of Lord Tyrion in any of his favourite taverns, Brienne turned towards the Street of Silk. 

She found him in his favourite brothel, reclining in a cool, shaded room, the wide windows open to every passing breeze, a goblet of ice-chilled wine in his hand and two giggling young ladies attending to his every whim. 

“Ah, Lady Brienne,” he said with a smile. “Come, join us. Please, ladies – a glass of wine for my brother’s faithful squire.”

Brienne sat down, feeling awkward in the luxurious room; she tried not to look at the scantily clad young ladies. 

“Ser Jaime sent me to ask if you had any errands for me,” she said, delivering her message. 

“Did he?” Lord Tyrion looked amused. “That was very kind of him.”

From the hidden corners of the room, she could almost hear one of the women whispering: _Did you hear? That poor boy._

“Perhaps you could tell me what really happened last night,” Lord Tyrion said.

Brienne shrugged and looked away. “Ser Reynard was drunk,” she said. “He was young and handsome and believed he was a master swordsman. He wanted to prove himself by defeating a famous knight.”

“Clearly a very foolish young man.” Lord Tyrion tutted disapprovingly. “And was he?” 

Brienne blinked. “A master swordsman?” She thought for a moment. “He was very good.”

“But?” 

“But in the end, he was not – extraordinary.” 

**

**2\. Summary justice**

** 

They rode down into Lannisport from Casterly Rock, a crimson-cloaked company of guards in their wake. The townspeople turned to watch and whisper as they passed. 

The clatter of hooves on the cobblestones was loud on the crowded streets, but the hustle and bustle of the richest city in the Seven Kingdoms was even louder. The cries of hawkers and street merchants and the rising and falling of voices in the market was as deafening as it had been in King’s Landing, though here rolling accents of the Westerlands predominated, rather than the blunt cant of Flea Bottom. But though the townsfolk went about their business, Brienne saw their darted glances and hushed whispers. 

_Casterly Rock has come to call him to account,_ the townsfolk say. _Those poor murdered girls. Their souls cry out for justice._

Expectant silence fell, slowly, in their wake. 

They stopped outside a certain house, elegant and well-appointed. There was a noble crest carved into the stone above the doorway. 

One of the guards thumped on the heavy wooden door with the butt of his spear. 

“Tymon Lannett,” the captain called out, “you have been found guilty of the crimes of rape and murder. Open, in the name of King Robert Baratheon!”

There was a pause. No sound came from within. A crowd of townsfolk had started to gather around them, growing restless and angry. 

_Justice!_ they cried, and _Murderer!_

The guardsman thumped on the door again. When no answer came, Ser Jaime swung down from his horse, and kicked the door in. There was a great crack and a crash, and the sound of panicked shouting; Ser Jaime drew his sword and strode intently into the house.

Long moments later he reappeared, dragging a fat, well-dressed nobleman out into the street by his thick velvet collar. The nobleman was struggling and protesting vociferously – until he saw the crimson-cloaked guards and the lion banner and recognised Ser Jaime.

Then he wept, and pleaded innocence, and fell to his knees and begged for mercy. 

The crowd shouted and catcalled and threw rotten fruit. 

“Enough,” Ser Jaime said, mounting back into the saddle and raising his voice to be heard above the crowd. “Take him to the market square.”

**

There was an empty platform standing in the shadow of the town hall, six gibbets standing side by side, waiting. 

The crowd cheered as the guardsmen dragged the now-sobbing prisoner to the platform, tied his hands behind his back and drew a noose tight around his neck.

“Tymon Lannett,” Ser Jaime announced, loud enough for all to hear, “for the crimes of rape and murder, your life has been declared forfeit. In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, I, Ser Jaime Lannister, sentence you to die.” 

_Hang him!_ The crowd shouted. _Murderer! Justice!_

He nodded to the captain of the guard. A lever was thrown, a platform flew open beneath the nobleman’s feet, and he dropped into thin air with a strangled shriek – immediately cut off as his neck snapped. 

The crowd whistled and cheered. 

It was – unpleasant. But Brienne forced herself to watch, unblinking. 

**

**3\. For the joy of it**

**

One morning, Ser Jaime stepped into the practice yard at Highgarden, his golden hair shining in the sun, and said that he would take on all comers. 

The knights of the Reach were well-trained, courageous and high-hearted. 

But not one of them could touch him. 

He smiled with fierce joy as he fought, a creature of deadly grace and brutal, ruthless force. 

_Did you see that?_ The knights and squires marveled. _The Lion of Lannister._

** 

**4\. How much is a whore’s honour worth?****

**

At first, Brienne didn’t react to the shouting. 

They had stopped for the night in a pleasant clearing, Elyn and her group of women of negotiable virtue. As always, there were always men eager to buy what they were selling; Brienne and Ser Jaime were eating their evening meal by a separate campfire, trying to ignore the sounds coming from beyond. 

But when the usual moans and cries and panting grunts changed to angry shouting, the heavy sound of a blow and shrill, fearful screams, Brienne and Ser Jaime jumped to their feet and rushed to intervene. 

A big-bellied knight was standing red-faced and naked over Melia, one of the younger girls, waving an unsheathed dagger and shouting in a drunken rage. Ser Jaime knocked him down and sent him sprawling on his arse.

Brienne turned to the weeping girl. “Are you alright?” she asked, kneeling beside her.

Ser Jaime came back and knelt before Melia, stripping off his crimson cloak and wrapping its warm folds around her. “Look at me,” he said gently, turning her chin so that he could see. The knight had split her lip and given her what would become a nasty black eye. 

“She’s just a cheap whore!” the knight shouted, getting back to his feet and trying to bull his way past the other women who were barring in his way, standing united as a group. “Not worth the price I paid for her.”

The women drew in their breath. 

Something dark and ugly flashed through Ser Jaime’s eyes before they went flat and deadly cold. He stood up to his full height, at least half a head taller than the knight, and walked forward until he was standing toe to toe with the other man. 

“You swore to defend all women when you became a knight,” he said, his voice a pleasant, lazy drawl that sent chills down Brienne’s spine. “Not just highborn women, and not just innocent maidens. All women, rich and poor, high and low.”

The knight spat at his feet. “That for your worthless vows,” he snarled, “you pandering cunt. No cocksucking whore laughs at me!”

Ser Jaime smashed his teeth in with his fist. The knight crashed to the ground, screaming, and Ser Jaime hit him again, and again, and again. And then he dragged the man into the shadows of the trees, and the meaty blows continued until the screaming finally came to a gurgling end. 

The women watched on in silence. 

Long moments later, Ser Jaime emerged from the trees, his knuckles bloodied. He knelt before Melia once more and took her hands in his. He looked like a story-book knight kneeling before a fair maiden, just like in all the romances. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have stopped him.” 

Melia was a simple country girl, gentle and uneducated. She looked at him with wide eyes, clutching his cloak about her. “You don’t need to apologise to the likes of me, ser,” she whispered.

His mouth twisted. “Once, I swore to protect all women,” he said, “from the Queen herself to the lowest whore.”

(“And I’ve failed them, each and every time,” he said later, to Brienne.) 

**

**5\. Psychological warfare**

**

Rumour ran swifter than the Trident in the Riverlands. Scant days after Lannister forces invested Riverrun, she heard the story of how the Kingslayer had terrified poor, foolish Lord Edmure into surrendering the castle. 

_Did you hear?_ the whisperers repeated the story with horrified relish. _In a trebuchet!_

_Lord Edmure gave the castle up, just like that. The Kingslayer broke him like a twig._

**

**+1 The one time Jaime held his tongue**

**

In the middle of nowhere in the Dornish Marches, storm clouds gathered and the skies opened above them. All too soon the rain began to sheet down in cascading curtains and the ground became a sucking quagmire. 

They saw a light up ahead of them, a vague outline of a stone keep, and struggled through the wind and the rain to reach shelter. 

The weathered, tumbledown keep was called Greenmount. Their host was a white-bearded ancient called Ser Aymer, his eyes clouded and rheumy, his mind obviously wandering far in the past.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said, “we get so few guests these days.” He beamed at them good-naturedly, bade them sit by the roaring fire and called for his servants to bring bread and cheese and wine. 

And there he sat with them and regaled them at great length with tales of the Marcher Lords, his voice quavering and trembling with passion as he recounted their endless feuds and tangled rivalries. 

Brienne was only grateful for the warmth. Ser Jaime, his eyes glazed over in a way that suggested his attention had strayed far away, put on an attentive expression and pretended to listen with interest. 

The ancient was wandering lost in his tale of some long-ago triumph in a long-forgotten battle. “That for Lannisters and all their ilk,” he said, spitting into the fire. 

Ser Jaime’s head flew up, indignant. His golden hair, curling from the rain and the warmth of the fire, caught old Ser Aymer’s eye.

“Why, you’ve the look of the lions, lad,” the old man said. “How is it you come to be wandering so far from the Westerlands, in such poor raiment?” He indicated their nondescript grey and brown clothes. “A hedge knight, are you?” 

“My name is Hill,” Ser Jaime said mildly. “Ser Jon Hill. Of Lannisport.”

“Ah.” The old man nodded his head, musing. “You might be one of Lord Tytos’ by-blows, then. He had a mistress in Lannisport, didn’t he? Whatever happened to her?” 

Brienne frowned. She’d heard whispered rumours – 

Ser Jaime’s mouth tightened. “After Lord Tytos’ death,” he said, “Lord Tywin had her stripped naked and whipped through the streets.”

“Ha! I always knew that boy was a cunt.” The old man cackled, coughed and spat another gob of phlegm into the fire. “That for the Lannisters and Casterly Rock, eh?”

Somehow, Ser Jaime managed to hold his tongue. “Just so,” was all he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The nasty business of a duel with a jumped up lordling from the Reach is referenced in "The Tourney of Ashemark".
> 
> **"How much is a whore's honour worth?" is from Clint Eastwood's "Unforgiven", 1992.


	9. I is for Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have been to Sunspear in the south,” she said, “and to Castle Black in the north. I have been to Lannisport in the west and to Tarth in the east. But I have never been to Here. Nor There.”
> 
> [Brienne Tarth, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, puts certain questions to men who would seek to wear the white cloak.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a lot of Brienne's dialogue in this chapter has been lifted straight from "A Storm of Swords". Jaime's POV as he embraced the role and responsibility of the Lord Commander is one of my favourite scenes in the books - essentially I've taken his lines and adapted them for Brienne. Especially the bit about Here and There, because that is pure genius.
> 
> Re: Brienne as Lord Commander - while I have my issues with season 8, I didn't hate Brienne becoming the Lord Commander. I don't know that I'll follow any/all of season 8 canon for Squire!Brienne!verse, but I thought it would be interesting to explore Brienne stamping her mark on the Kingsguard. Think of this as a very speculative (possibly non-Squire!Brienne!canon) ficlet. 
> 
> Re: Jaime's fate in this very speculative ficlet - if he must die, let's pretend that he met a grand heroic end, much more fitting to his character and his character development.

A white book sat on a white table in a white room. 

During those long-ago days when they had travelled so blithely across Westeros, Jaime had liked to tell her stories drawn from its pages, trying to pass on what lessons he could from the deeds – and the misdeeds – of Kingsguard past.

And now Brienne stood at the head of the table, dressed in white-scale armour with a white cloak falling from her shoulders. The cloak was no more than bleached wool, but the weight of it was almost tangible. 

She was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Her hand would write the histories in the White Book. She would dictate the character of the new Kingsguard, and in this grave new world without dragons, without magic, without conquest and tyranny and grand heroism – _without Jaime_ – she wanted men of a calm, steady temperament, level-headed and capable of sober thought, discretion and independent judgment. 

Tyrion had laughed uproariously when she had confided in him. _You think you can find five fighting men like that in all Westeros?_ he’d asked. _And if you do find them, how well will they inspire the masses?_

Still, she had scoured the tournaments and festivals that had sprung up in the wake of new hope that followed King Bran’s coronation. She had seen knights and squires, hedge-knights and sell-swords and men at arms. She had found two men already who fit her criteria; now only three places remained to be filled. 

“Ser? Lord Commander?” Podrick’s voice interrupted her reverie. “They’re here.” 

“Send the first one in, Pod,” she said. 

**

Ser Marek Sand was lithe, black-haired and black eyed, with white teeth that flashed when he laughed. He was a fierce swordsman, it was said, and deadly with a spear. 

“And where have you served, ser?” she asked. 

“Here and there,” he said with that flashing smile. 

She stared at him, unmoved by his attempt to charm her. “I have been to Sunspear in the south,” she said, “and to Castle Black in the north. I have been to Lannisport in the west and to Tarth in the east. But I have never been to Here. Nor There.”

His smile died. 

**

Ser Aran Lefford was battle-hardened and weary. He had fought in the Whispering Wood, and in the siege of Riverrun. He had followed Jaime to Winterfell and had fought bravely against the armies of the dead, beside Northmen and Valemen, wildlings and Dothraki and Unsullied alike. 

Brienne knew him to be a good man. But his father had been a Lannister bannerman, the lord of the Golden Tooth, a fortress that had changed hands again and again during the War of the Five Kings. One of his brothers had died fighting the Young Wolf; another had burned to death on the Field of Fire.

“I know you for a good and honourable man, Ser Aran,” Brienne said. “Your courage and integrity are unquestioned.”

He bowed gravely. 

“But,” she said, “one of your brothers died fighting the Starks. Another died fighting the Targaryen forces, and your eldest brother’s position is precarious.” 

“I am loyal to the new King,” Ser Aran protested. “My brother has bent the knee.”

“Perhaps you are,” Brienne said. “Perhaps he did. But what if, one day, he rises against King Bran? What will you do if your brave brother comes storming into the throne room? And there you stand all in white, between your king and your blood. What will you do?” 

He stared at her, wide-eyed. “Ser Brienne, that will never happen,” he said. 

“It happened to my predecessor,” Brienne said. 

**

Ser Gawen Greene was tall and sandy-haired, with a slow, grave smile. He was not reputed to be an extraordinary swordsman, nor had he performed any extraordinary feats of honour or chivalry. But his eyes were steady and thoughtful. 

“Tell me, ser,” she said, “if the King ordered you to kill a man, or to stand by and watch it done, would you do it without question?” 

“Of course,” he said, too-quickly. 

“And if he ordered you to harm or kill a woman, or a child. Would you do it, or watch one of your sworn brothers do it?” 

He paused, and this time she could see he was thinking. “If the reason was just,” he said slowly. 

“And if not?” 

Another pause. “King Joffrey ordered his Kingsguard to beat Lady Sansa Stark,” he said slowly. “To punish her for her brother’s rebellion. A young maid of two and ten.”

“So he did. Would you have obeyed him?”

“It is the duty of a knight to obey his liege lord,” he said reflexively.

She considered him. “The highest duty of the Kingsguard is to protect the King,” she said. “But if your vows as a knight come into conflict with your vows as a Kingsguard, how will you reconcile them? If the King plunges the realm into cruelty and horror, will you simply stand by and watch? Will you tell yourself that you are merely doing your duty, and hold your honour above all else?” 

“I don’t –” he began. And then – “You squired for the Kingslayer,” he said, “before King Robert’s death.”

“I did,” she confirmed. “And so I am asking you: what would you do, if the King wished to kill one innocent, or ten, or a hundred? What if he wished to burn down an entire city?”

“Is that –?” he hesitated. “Is that what the Mad King did?”

“He planted caches of wildfire throughout King’s Landing,” she said. “He planned to burn the city to ashes, and be reborn as a dragon in the aftermath. Now tell me, Ser Gawen – what would you have done, if you were the lone Kingsguard in that throne room?”

**

Later, much later, Brienne and Podrick sat at the white table, nursing two glasses of wine. There was a fire lit, though it was a warm evening; Jaime had always hated the cold. He had always shared more of himself on silent evenings, with a fire between them and a flagon of Arbor gold. 

“What would _you_ have done, ser?” Podrick asked. 

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Pod,” she said slowly. “It’s been more than ten years since he asked me that, and I still don’t know.” 

“I don’t think there’s any real answer,” Podrick said thoughtfully. “Or any real choice, in the moment. Just – whatever you think is right.”

“Jaime told me, once,” Brienne said slowly, remembering that long-ago night, the silence and the firelight after her first battle – “one day the choice and the responsibility would be mine alone. And that no matter what choice I made, it would follow me for the rest of my life.”

She looked over at Podrick. “I wish I knew what he thought of my choices,” she said.

“You know what he thought of you, ser,” Podrick said simply. “He knighted you.”


	10. J is for Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times someone is jealous of Brienne.

The day after the King’s summons arrives on Tarth, Brienne goes down to the kitchens for a hasty breakfast and finds herself the centre of attention.

“Oh, my lady!” Merry, a saucy chambermaid giggles, grasping Brienne’s hand and smiles warmly at her. “They say you’ve been summoned to King’s Landing!” 

“Yes,” Brienne says, smiling despite her worry. Merry’s cheerful good humour is irresistible. “But I’m to squire for the Kingslayer, Merry. His reputation is –”

“Oh, I wish I could go with you,” one of the scullion-boys breathes. “Just think of all the adventures you’ll have.” 

“All the feasts and tourneys and pageants.” Plump, good-natured Judith the cook sighs. “All those handsome knights and beautiful ladies, just like the songs.” 

“You will write to us, won’t you, my lady?” Merry asks her. “Don’t forget us when you’re out in the wide world, having grand adventures.”

There is a general chorus of agreement. 

“Of course,” Brienne says, blinking back tears. “I’ll never forget you.”

** 

Lancel Lannister is at that awkward stage of gangly boyhood, the first patchy hairs growing on his upper lip and his voice breaking. Unlike the other boys, though, he is a Lannister, and therefore he has no spots, and his peach fuzz is as golden as the long curls on his head. 

He sneers at Brienne and gives himself airs. But the one and only time they sparred against each other in the practice yard, Brienne thrashed him soundly and knocked him on his arse.

Ser Jaime treats him with casual, good-natured indifference, calls him coz, and secretly thinks him good for nothing but cup-bearing. Following his lead in this, Brienne smirks at Lancel every time she hears the King’s roaring bellow for more wine. 

It’s only years later that Brienne realizes Lancel was desperately jealous of her. 

** 

Robert is out hunting. Her ladies are scattered around the castle, dismissed, and the servants know better than to disturb her. 

Tangled together with Jaime, their bodies still joined in the aftermath of a long, slow coupling, Cersei sighs, sated and languorous, and twines her fingers in Jaime’s golden hair. 

His weight is heavy on her, warm and solid, and his head is resting between her breasts. 

In the distance, she hears boys shouting and the clash of steel, and derisive calls of “A beauty! A beauty!” 

She feels the instant his attention shifts. His body grows coiled and tense, his head lifts to follow the sound, and he starts to untangle himself from her – 

She clenches her hand in his hair. 

“Don’t you dare leave,” she hisses, wrapping her legs around his waist and reaching up to bite at his lip. “Your great beast of a squire can take care of herself.”

**

It had taken Brienne embarrassingly long to realize that Renly – King Renly, now – preferred the company of men. Even longer until she understood that Ser Loras was his particular friend. 

Ser Jaime had hinted at it, of course. Lady Olenna had tried to warn her. But as always, Brienne could not be led, and had to come to the realization on her own. 

Still. She knows now. 

“Lady Brienne,” King Renly calls, late one night at Highgarden after a feast. “Come. Join us, and we’ll speak of old times. Back before the world went to hell.” He smiles warmly, his bright blue eyes laughing, and slings an arm across her shoulders. 

Somehow, she finds herself seated before the fire in the King’s luxurious chambers, with Ser Loras and the King himself, a glass of wine in her hand as they reminisce about days long past. 

“Tell me about the Kingslayer,” King Renly says, smiling wickedly. “All those months you were out on the road with Ser Jaime. Are you sure you never –?”

She blushes. “No!” she says, shaking her head emphatically. 

King Renly sighs, leans back, and exchanges a regretful glance with Ser Loras. 

“Pity,” he says casually. “I would have fucked him.”

**

Many years later, as Westeros slowly rebuilds itself after years of war and strife followed by a long and terrible winter, a great tournament is held to celebrate the spring. 

Knights journey for days and weeks on end from all over the south. Brienne sees men of the Reach and the Stormlands, the Westerlands and the Riverlands, the Vale and even far-flung Dorne – new faces under banners she’d once known, and old, familiar faces she’d thought lost forever. 

It feels – strange – to play at war and combat for the cheering crowds. But grand tourneys are as much an opportunity to bring all the peoples of Westeros together – princes and great lords, knights and merchants, wanderers and smallfolk – as they are a competition. Heroes and villains are made. Reputations are won. Histories begin as rumour and become stories that solidify into legend: the tale of Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna Stark had begun as a whispered tourney scandal that plunged the realm into war. 

The sun is bright, and the richly-coloured banners and flags snap bravely against the blue sky. 

Brienne enters the melee wearing her blue armour with a rose-and-azure quartered surcoat, Oathkeeper at her side. When the herald announces her as Ser Brienne of Tarth, the Evenstar, the commons cheer and roar her name. 

She looks up, into the stands, and sees a young highborn girl, perhaps ten or eleven years old, staring at her with wide, envious eyes.


End file.
